


the heart everlasting

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Torture, Chucklevoodoos, Dark, F/M, Harassment, Manipulation, One sided ♤ feelings, One-Sided Attraction, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She looks like a dying star: spent, somehow still glowing from the inside out. The light touches her in all colors from the glass windows but now the sobriety syncs in.(warnings apply, check notes b4 reading)
Relationships: Kurloz/Meulin (mentioned), The Disciple/Grand Highblood (Homestuck), The Sufferer/Disciple (mentioned)
Kudos: 4





	the heart everlasting

**Author's Note:**

> BEFORE YOU READ:  
> Additional warnings here: manipulation(through withdrawing of information), torture-(physical and psychological),brief mind control, exploitation of fear, mentions of character death, threats, implied character death, sexual violence-rape, harassment, breaching of personal boundaries and obviously sexual content as well as slight body horror.  
> Please do not read this considering the rating and topic of the fic if you find yourself not emotionally or mentally equipped to deal with any of the topics explored. The small plot that there is (it's still PWP tho) does escalate very quickly and your safety is important. None of the actions that are done here are condoned by the author and are acknowledged as bad, the whole thing attempting to be more an exploration of emotional repression's negative consequences, actually.  
> That said, if you would like to give this a shot, thank you. Comments are appreciated and not forgotten and I hope you find something to enjoy!

The Alternian Sun is up and there have been less times than colors on the spectrum when you can remember feeling this vicious on a walkout. 

At first there were the tens, then the hundreds and now the rebellion’s reaching the millions. The revelations of your own ship harboring deserters left you on edge more than anything. It feels never fucking ending like any thing the fuck else in your extended lifespan of pain dealings, but luckily so is the Empress’s regimen and appetite for the galaxy’s remnants of life to eclipse and draw drom. 

Like a dead inevitable sea, she’s on a quest to engulf all of them under her law, a blanket for you doing so under Messiah’s law much as you can. You’ve learned to accept the inevitability of death every darn fucking second and at every corner, are a harbringer of it and hold faith it will come for you too, so what’s keeping these fuckers so stubborn in comprehension eludes you. 

The past eleven sweeps full of their growing numbers were finally starting to dwindle and now at the very least you’ve found traces of yet another one of their leading figures.

You’ve just caught him,so then _why?_ The Sufferer’s been squashed under his own disgraceful assasination all the recent.

It was perhaps naivete to think ideas died down with their symbols, this you know for truth.Having carried the faith in your heart from early on solely as you’ve found it external in bits and pieces and had it resonate until you made it your own, you should have fucking known better than most souls other that ideas cannot die. 

But you’d be damned if you don’t try to wipe the whole slate of them clean to root it out after the core is gone because their ideas are digging a worse grave for your faith than the ones you laid for theirs.After all,it does go the other way around,too. If nobody is left to be touched by it the fire will be snuffed out.

There are those who still actively try to spread heresy through word. You wanted to find them and end them but you had had no inclination to believe that it could come so soon.There is a large cave that doesn’t bother to hide its purpose,scrawled drawings and even a signature, you recognize her from the way she wails and yelps when your fools surprise her. You’d been given a lead. It's a somewhat active preaching site from the empire’s enemies where she could have taken refuge and here she is.

The Sufferer’s bitch is somewhat not what you fucking expected when you do finally lay gander on her, but she’s not an unwelcome apparition in the caves near the desert’s heat. You see her as they bring her out in the clear. An olive as you heard and caught glimpses of her at his execution before they ran, but well built, young and with piercing eyes shining under desert light. The green of hers is apparent on her skin in small blotches and the sight of blood is welcome to you, brings some infinitesimal comfort.

Nothing compared to how you only see ten out of your twelve assisting trolls rolling out of the cave with gashes and scratches. Huntress packs a fight, but not enough. 

Sure picked a strong troll for preaching about in pity and peace but appearances aren’t anything and you’re not about to underestimate her plethora of heretic ideas. Struggle further she motherfuckign may, since you’d been freshly back from checkingon the sector the Cavalreapers dwell in due to more desertion suspicions on official fucking orders before you got to these caves and since their newest commander is nowhere to be seen it can only be more bad news.

You’d been trying but you’re growing fucking livid and so you’re not gonna let this bitch go and escape now that you’ve bumped into her. She yells to be freed of course, but nothing that doesn’t irritate you or isn’t unfunny questions as to why your brethren don’t change their mirthful way. You used to know they won’t for sure, etched in stars faith, but right now it bothers.

You order them to lock her up fast and take her straight to the cells after she’s been brought to interrogatorturing and you don’t care to see her face for a couple of Suns as you report to Her Imperiousness and deal with the legislacerators, the remaining loyal of them. 

It doesn’t matter right now,it begins to even look like the sole small victory for now but too soon yet to tell. You’re mostly ready to forget about her after you saw her and move the fuck on because she’s as good as finished.

Except you don’t much get to. 

You’re informed after a brief rest and some more bad fucking news that your new prisoner isn’t at all cooperative by the legalities. There are noise complaints,more injured guards than usual and some fuss you don’t comprehend. The news comes now as unexpectedly welcome as much as it is another panache, because there’s an option for you to extract information and perhaps let out some of this fucking tension crackling in you the past nights. 

They grant you the simple request of keeping her locked in your cathedral with other war prisoners for now in hopes you can get something out of her before the final sentence. More than fine by you in the end, and supposedly fine for her as well seeing as you don’t allow the use of political prisoners as fresh paint until after they’d filed their last ticker.

You decide to do something you haven’t done in a while to curb the emerging bloodthirst. You’re going to hide your sharp edges for now and curiously play nice for the mirth of it and do some interrogatorturing yourself. 

You’ve nothing to lose by riling her up to get some information and shed light on whatever motives spawn the desertions either way. You pass the cellars at dusk, the glory of cathedral lights making the cutting tensions in you harmonize with the colors. You're visiting, have to see who you’re dealing with after all.

You expect blood other than her own since you had been told she’s an unruly sort. What you don’t expect is her brashness, loud demeanor and the small yet notable troll squadron crowding the front of her shut cell’s doors.

„What commotion.” You state,matter of factly and expectantly and enough to get the attention of the six guards gathered at the doors immediately turning to piss their pants because you’re there.

„ Sir” in true indigo fashion four of them reply sitting up straight but it really tells you nothing. Sometimes they really ain’t shit and they can’t tell you nothing.

„Motherfuckers. Explain.” You direct. They do.

They tell you they’d been trying to give the prisoner good the first days and she’d been trying to bite off their arms even as they did kick at her.

Tell you she’s loud enough not to let them catch any shut eye that it makes the sopor sour for the day shift. 

They tell you she acts as though she stopped hearing their noise complaints, all deaf to anything but her singing, meow beast talks and imaginings.

„Then we’ve only dropped the sustenance through the door and we’re not sure if she’s ingesting it.”

„And she’s been singing these songs. To find soothing perhaps? She always hugs this dark cloth we brought her in with.. Doesn’t seem that important,however. Sent Taxars to get her quiet and she wouldn’t listen.” It occurs to you they’re all so young on duty while you have them explain.

„Her hearing ducts haven’t cared about us yelling for a few until she overheard us discussing...some personal matter” Taraxas, in question, coughs.

It seems oddly suspicious and you can’t have her starve before public executing. But that’s not the part you care about right now.

„Why in Carnival's name are you _all_ here now?”

The last two of them, who you remember assigning, flush purple and stare hesitantly at one another. The taller of them starts but seems to be covering the shorter. 

„Well the prisoner had finally responded and ....she was just giving Roxass...Some very good advice that gathered a crowd,sir.”

„What kind of advice can’t you find in your prayers,brethren?”

„Ah,um..” The hesitation has you unnerved. „Well,it’s quadrant advice.”

You facepalm.

„All of you get _out of here_ and _out of the fucking way._ ”

You stare at her hard when you go in and the door clicks shut. She stares back in immediate recognition and sees to grab onto the floor to anchor her in some semblance of safety.

„Motherfucking guards.” You inform her and lounge back against the walls to observe her instead.

„Mewdn’t be so bad if they clawed listen and furrlow their pushers! Do anything instead of hiss...” she defends and argues for them for reasons you fail to understand.

„Splendid miracle you’ve still your puns in you to play advocates,catbitch.” You note, since she is surprisingly takative given her situation.

Corners of her mouth quirk up but only for a second. „Nine lives.” A pause. „ Beclaws they deserve defending as effuryone. Even if they pawsitively hurt me it doesn’t feel as if they wanted to. Furriendly trolls don’t hurt mew long.” Corners of her lips draw back down then, and she stares.

„They can handle their own fucking selves. Is it to your comprehension the reason you’re brought here again?” You weren’t going to punish them anyway, not right now. And you don’t want to hear her sprouting pity sufferist politics your way about your staff.

„Whatever the whimsicalkitty of the reason mewr sickness has clawed up wish.” She does bare some teeth at you now and it’s startling but at least to feel her anger gives you something to work with.

They said they tried slapping her into silence and you see the flush of a bruise on her cheek which you intend to darken. They tried kicking her. You can make that worse. Her knuckles are bruised from fighting back but you don’t care to rip her claws off just yet.

„Why are _mew_ here?” She unabashedly asks you but behind her gaze you feel her fear of you spark like a livewire.

„Tell me about them. _All of them_ .” You ask her and watch that fear grow. She knows what you mean.

Her falling silent is instantaneous but so is her grabbing a piece she managed to rip out of floor wood. She tries to reach to you fast and hurt you. You grab her wrist before impact and you’re flattered.

„Won’t work,bitch. Calm down and tell me.” You press and she denies you.

_„No_ . ”

That she’s trying to protect their names when you already know them, their hideouts dweller’s names _and_ their matron’s is a strong irony. Makes you wonder for a moment how it’d have played out if the middle castes would have been so loyal to you and church, but you pay her the small respect of not telling her so. 

You’ll let her believe whatever the motherfuck she wants to believe she’s doing for them is working. Besides, as much as her indomitable spirits seemed a charming quirk they very well might be what makes the heretics listen at her, in which case you will have to break them.

„The folk tales confirm your vision. They do say you’ve nine lives. We’re about to test that.” You grin and twist her wrist until it bends wrong to send a primary message that you won’t tolerate anything less than answers next time and she screams long and hard. That she didn’t expect it so sudden all the better.

You make up your mind to come again the next night and not break her all at once. You’re feeling better for feeling the snap under your hands but you’ve still little new information if any. She screamed profanity at you finally after that, and she screamed and screamed that you’re horrible until you left chuckling in an attempt to reassure herself in misplaced positivity,perhaps in a shadow of her dead matesprit’s wishes by telling you if trolls knew they had an alternative they would fight you on this. 

You’ve no way to take that kindly and wonder between her screams and curses at you whether she’s beginning to hate you in a way familiar but you find her nature contemptible as is.

The second time you visit, Darkleer is the only one appointed with you whom you can trust still with matters of prisoner handling importance as it should’ve been from the start. The colors of the walls unkempt, the tension in the doors and in you are all _worse_. You’re told she’d been praying to Vantas’s name like a lost Messiah thinking he’d tell her what to do or say. 

You think maybe this time she’ll tell you about him and enter anyway.

The neutral olive glow you found on her skin days prior is slightly faded.The blood on her has dried even as her wrist remains inflamed. She’d not been given changes of clothes in later nights. You consider getting her on the special stardust or soporifics so she won’t feel a thing what’s coming but then curse where that piteous thought may have come from, better if she does.

You’ve brought her the food today, because why the fuck not, in your whimsicali-kitty? _\- as she called it_ , you thought a kindness mixed with a punishment gets her talking faster.

You thought wrong as her reaction to seeing you today is charcoal, a dark licorice. She roars at you to get out as soon as you enter in on her blasphemy prayer time and it feels like hatred. You sit down in front of her and offer her the food, it’s still partly what you came to do. 

She snarls at you and with her sharp claws tries to reach your throat. You aren’t stupid, you do dodge and claw her right back over the side of her ear. You felt the fight in her and it spreads a familiar black fire through and you look at her in question but she’s not got a handle on this at all.

Neither of you speaks. Her in the disdain of you in her space and you since you’re analysing the sourness of these odd hostilities. You had a feeling she would retaliate even through the panic.

She stands upfront for the first time since she’d been brought in then. You take her in and your pulse stings with instinct. Motherfucking catbitch looking downright feral, long hair and sharp eyes with a savagely focused look but her body is sweating and you can see her thoracic cavity expand as she struggles to breathe in. 

She is pissed at you and you feel it off her. There’s blood running down her shoulder into rivulets down her arm and rumblespheres and there’s a warm glow to all of this, like neither of you are really there, like she’s one of your warmer Messiah blessed paintings where the paints messed wrong with oils and shit gets blurry and you can taste that smell of blood and paint on the tip of your tongue. 

She’s very much a hunter still and if you let her she’s gonna kill you, smaller as she is you underestimate no one- especially an enemy’s most trusted. So you’ll have to get her first tonight. She packs a great deal of sinew and muscle for a good part yet softness and heat for others and you don’t waste time grabbing over her wounded wrists and trying to hold her up to your face. 

She doesn’t come easy but she doesn’t beg at you for mercy either and you want to see how far her courageous tryst extends. She stares at you and you feel the heat behind it and aren’t sure if you’re seeing it because it’s convenient or because it’s burning like she truly fucking loathes you now so easy, and it’s a hotness down your spine and to your pan.

It’s much of what it takes for you to want to put the fear in her. You hold her gaze, her big eyes framed in fluttering eyelashes, confused for a second before your Voodoos get a hold of her. It’s small,you’re looking for her ticks, for a way in.She doesn’t let on much and with that you’re impressed.Seems all she still had to lose she’s on the point of losing in awareness.

You don’t get then in the fuck why she would be so full of livelihood still and some memories open up to your calling then but they’re warm and not what you’re interested in. Camps and affections and fur and warm nights. You leave them there. You ain’t here to twist her pan into something she’s not right now as she is of no use to the Empire nor your Holy missions in her current predicament.

It’s enough when she snaps out of it for her to bare teeth differently, her hands are starting to shake so small you barely catch it but you quirk your lips at her and show her your full fangs for a change. She actually backs away, crawls on the cold cathedral cell floors best she can away from you as she’s noticed the less savory part of how you’re taking in her fear and whimpers and how that sent a message to your pheromones as you approach her.

You bend down and she fucking slaps you across the face hard, would have _sliced_ you if you didn’t hold yourself out the way before she went for it.You could get deep in her pan and have her pacified, soft and pliable for this but you’ve no interest in that, want her real. 

You growl,but it’s only for show since you already figured how to get the most terror in her now as you bend down and forcefully fucking kiss her in a mockery of blackness. She panics and you hold her the fuck down and feel her shaking and thrashing, body trying to coil away from you forcefully.

This seems to scare her good, sacrilegious to her _memories_ of love you found. If it takes erasing them to break her pusher than that you will do. Her fighting and thrashing encourage you to do things fast and dirty.

You don’t have to shame her like this, didn’t ever need to before for anyone but you’re pissed and beyond caring since she seems to have some form of hate for you. Can’t think of the relevant prophetic words for it except for your darkest scriptures.

The wrongness of her screaming and protesting does register like an afterthought all throughout your clawing at her clothes and frame. You’re expecting tears but she’s proving hella fucking strong inside and outside.You’ve shut your pusher to this before everything and you’re gonna shut up your fucking mind for a precious moment with her. 

You let her slap you and scratch at your face and shoulders all she wants in her attempts to get off while you reach down to touch her. She does land a few hits on you and choice insults, none so decorated and all _hissed_ but then doesn’t voice a thing in her terror even if you can feel the surprise and shock color her face into humiliation when you finally slip into her.

She gives you a bit of a hard time but then her body betrays and accomodates it, gives way, a wet slide and you can feel resistance against your bulge melt away and fuck,it’s _pleasurable_. She’s warm and constricting still and now that she’s let go her breathing is coming down in sharp gasps and barely hidden mewls between soft protests. You don’t care to note she must be close to crying, don’t care if she passes out from panic, makes it easier to use her right the fuck now.

You keep fucking into her easy, even as the rest of her is hard with tension and shaking moment to moment. It would be sweet,but it _isn’t_. You think maybe she might hate you back for a second of wishful thinking, maybe in a fun way, but you dismiss it. You’re not sure you’re interested and she doesn’t in good faith seem to be either. And she’s a dead troll anyway.

You were holding her down but she can still reach you. She snaps you out of the haze in a flash as she lifts up and clashes her teeth on you and you duck again. She’s gone for your throat before ,must be desperate to _rip_ it and stop you. It ends instead in another mockery of a kiss as you pull her in, press in a threat against her lips while seating her deeper onto you so she lets you invade her mouth.

Her fangs sink into the flesh of your tongue and you growl in pain and pleasure. You can feel her bite into the muscle as strongly as she can, can feel your own blood bittering down your throat as you breathe and try not to choke.

It occurs to you maybe there’s some cosmic joke you’ve heard to be told about this and want to laugh in praise but there is a sinking heady feeling- at once _wrong_ , _liminal and like a memory you’re not supposed to have of a faraway existence,_ where you are differently framed and somewhat still entangled with this kittybitch. You press that down, shove her off forcibly and hold her turned now with your hand pressing the back of her neck into the floors. Her eyes twinkle at you before she’s turned and it’s like you’re peering into yourself, like she’s seen through you instead. The pride when she shuts her eyes and gives in and enjoys you in flesh is there, but it doesn’t feel right in full.

You’ve heard some troll’s pushers beat in synch with the sun and she’s so fucking warm you can still hear the beat of her blood drumming through her skin. That’s all you’re guided by as you come down. A steady beat, steady warmth, everlasting.

„Been _mad fun_ , kitten.” You tell her abruptly. You aren’t quite fully aware where that came from, came out all not sounding like you. You instantly feel outside yourself as regret clots your pan and constricts even as you try your best to push that way,too. 

Don’t bother to aid her none as she’s a captive and sentenced and you ain’t in no quadrant as you make your way back wordlessly, swearing yourself to a rest of the night that has to do with delegating and not any of the usual advice giving and carnage with the emerging trainees. 

You lay in a paradoxically fucked up mood, between uplifted and downright dreadful. The cell ward can definitely deal with the rest and you don’t care to be around her anymore. There’s nothing to be gained for either of you.

All throughout the night there’s a steady pulse under your claws, a remnant of the realities of her skin etched in your body’s memories and frequency. Why can you still hear her pusher so damn _loud_?

In the last time you’re seeing her, her sentence had been finally passed,another swift and public execution as foretold. You walk in.

She looks like a dying star, spent, somehow still glowing from the inside out. The light touches her in all colors from the glass windows but now the sobriety syncs in.

She’s fucking silent. It’s unusual. _Disturbing_. Only your trusted Executioner has seen her in her Capture chambers after the guards but she’d never once acted so isolated till now. Thus far she’d always been humming her blasphemy tunes, muttering loudly about Messiahs know what,trying to yell at your guards about their quadrants which you have to admit was in good jest, and she had been nothing if not strikingly loud and bright. 

Her hope’s finally caving in, you think. You _did_ break her. You’re reminded of the vast sea, waiting and hoping for care that never came and remember the bitter fangs of aloneness taking their drink off your soul looking through to this scene. Old stars memory, you’re not sure it’s even _real_ anymore and don’t identify with it so you push it down. And then she turns to you, careful eyes than you’ve seen on any curious meowbeast, a pouncerbeast in a dark room with slight curiosity.

_„Is there anyone that mew like?”_ She asks you,voice down and soft and _hopeful_. You don’t know what she’s getting at. _Why?_ _After everything_? She wants to talk quadrants. Quadrants to _you_. You raise an eyebrow in disbelief but the humour of the situation doesn’t escape you once more.

It’s fucking inappropriate and she probably already finds you unforgivable so you roar a laugh. She’s not laughing with you. It’s motherfucking unnerving but not in the right way. _Nothing_ is right.

You want to say _Fuck No_ but you don’t feel like telling her. Instead, you twist the knife and show fangs and see her flinch. It reminds you of the steady sun-beat in your dreams of yesternight immediately.

_„What the fuck was he like?”_

You already know the tale, but you don’t trust Vantas was ever the Saint they paint him. You’re a public figure, your _holy motherfucking self_ and trolls will twist agendas to their motherfucking liking like it ain’t no thing.

But she’s held his hand through most of it, had a phenomenal relation to transcend quadrants even you’ve heard of and you’re pretty sure you smeared some black and bitter over that for her , so you trust she at least must know truths unearthed. She is not in a position to refuse telling you even if she tried.

You hear the tears dropping small and final onto her shaking fists laying in her lap before you see them, as she straightens her back and looks away from you. You would feel bad, _almost_. But you’re not really in the mood for hysterics.

„He really was everything I wrote of him...He thought we could _all_ .. .” She stops herself, unusually censored for the short time you’ve known of her. Looking _utterly_ broken for once and it shouldn’t bother you, that was your goal even with disappointing skepticism tinting the information she gave you none of that should sting except for its unnaturalness.

„When she comes,do you think she’ll spare you?” She asks you after precious silences and it takes you some to realize she’s been thinking of the Empress, no puns, no brightness, no nothing to her tone.It’s about when Meenah’s done with whatever other life she’s squandered.

You laugh but it’s not all you. „I fucking _don’t.”_ And you don’t. _Course_ you don’t. Because you dish death often does not mean you think yourself above it. You go hope Messiahs enroll you or her on a Carnival ride before that,though.

„Maybe mew could...” she stops herself, she doesn’t believe it either so you think she understands. There’s none of the sort of salvation she imagines for someone like you.

You’ll do her the kindness of your brutal honesty at least by informing her straight up that she’s to be executed swiftly the next night-come. You notice only now the cloth in the corner that she kept didn’t hide for comfort-keeping and is clutching has dark red markings, has dried blood on,is a long pair of leg wrappings that is telling. Something in you winces before you can exhale and turn around.

She doesn’t bother to look at you and you don’t bother saying more, whether from the nasty feeling or misplaced respect, as you shut the door and ask your Executioner to tend to locking and prepare his bow. No matter how he may see this, you’ve faith in him to do his job as he’s done it before.

The Alternian Sun is up again the next day, cruel and heated and its beat, a _beat unyielding_ echoing the one engraved in your pan and under your skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Some context: Initially, I had wondered wanted to write Meulin/Kurloz in a challenging way, but the freedom GHB/Disciple provided was interesting and I did not feel qualified enough to do KurMeu. This is set in a sort of canon-compliant AU, an imagining of what might have happened if the Sufferer and Meulin were not killed at the same site and time,with her being captured afterwards.  
> Some details and motives: The Sun/Heart metaphor relates to Meulin's aspect and I did try portraying how she sees through other's hearts and selves here, in the little bits she offers to them to discover their real selves. As for Kurloz, he provides (as GHB) a fascinatingly less hidden hopelessness and negativity to contrast her as well as repressed regrets about harming her throughout this (because the memory persists after the deed and haunts).  
> Post- End spoilers: Due to it being canon compliant, Horus misses, and she lives. So after torturing her so much with this fic she does get some sort of solace through a chance to work things out.


End file.
